The Art of Death
by Psycho Hippie Number Five
Summary: We're both artists. We keep the dead living, no matter how unorthodox it gets. Possible love triangle, rated for violence, gore, death, adult situations. Please read and review!
1. Prologue

Hello, folks! I'm not sure what inspired this, but I'm pretty sure it's because I can't finish one of my original horror fics (which might show up on fictionpress if I get around to it). But, this is my first House of Wax fanfic, so, don't go off on me too badly. Constructive criticism is welcome, but no flames. I hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything you recognize. Don't sue me. All I can give you is a half-eathen peanut butter sandwich. It's crunchy.

* * *

I listened to the soft squish of my rain boots against the sidewalk. The rain was pouring down, waking tinny sounds against the shovel swung over my shoulder and soaking my bare shoulders. I glanced around and noticed a few flashlight beams at the cemetery's entrance. They were early this time. "Hey," I said roughly, casting a survey of the surroundings and making sure no one had noticed us yet. "Put those lights out." The flashlights winked out and I approached the large ornate gate. I ran my hands along the lock, following the chain twined in the bars, and made an annoyed noise. I thrust my shovel at one of the others with more force than necessary, and brought my foot down on the lock. There was a metallic clink as the chains slid down the bars and were hastily unwound. I grabbed my shovel and we filed into the graveyard.

"It's up here," someone whispered, and there was a rustle of the map. Within minutes we were clustered around a fresh grave. The person with the map flicked on a flashlight to double check, and I realized it was Rick. He looked at me. "Yo, Morgue, think we should be digging in this weather?"

I walked across the grave, testing it. "We might have a cave-in," I said slowly after a moment. "But there's some guys coming with supports." I speared my shovel into the dirt. "We better get moving. Patrol comes around in a hour." We made quick work of it, using a crowbar to snap off half of the coffin and chains to haul out the corpse. It was fresh- fresh as in fresh fish, not fresh air. I frowned and snapped my mask over my nose.

"Damn," Rick commented after a moment, pulling his shirt over his nose. "This one was poorly done." I watched as they loaded the corpse into the body bag and pulled the zipper. "Oh, shit." I turned with the rest of them, grabbing the crowbar, and watched as the groundskeeper slowly made our way toward us.

"Hey what are you kids doin'?" he asked, and I made a small scoffing noise.

"We're robbing graves," I said easily, placing my hands on my head.

"Rob--" He stopped as he saw the body bag. "Why?"

"'Cause we're resurrectionists. It's all in the name of science." I lept up onto the head stone. "Kill him."

-x-

To clear up any preconceived notions, we are not the resurrectionists associated with Frankenstein. "Resurrectionist" is a term commonly used in the 1800s to describe people who robbed graves for anatomy schools. Usually executed criminals were used, but when corpses came into high demand, a band of resurrectionists would dig up the grave of a freshly buried corpse and sell it to an anatomy school. Pay came at $1,000 a year with summers off.

Of course, this was back when embalming was still in the experimental stages and embalmed corpses weren't common in the graveyards. But, by today's standards, the corpses that were couldn't be considered embalmed. Resurrectionists today have a little more trouble. My troupe, comprised of six or seven people with medical specialties, keep records of funerals and have a network of mortician contacts. I used to be in with the contacts, before the...accident. We track the burials of unembalmed decedents (That's the polite term) and dig them up. Every so often we cart away an embalmed one in an attempt to perfect the practice.

We all have our separate reasons for doing this. Some of us are medical school slackers or dropouts trying to catch up. Some of us are just plain sick and have nothing better to do. I, personally, am waiting for the chance to go back to the funeral parlor and just work behind the scenes. Perhaps not as good as the others, but until I'm cleared as "fully recovered" I'm technically not allowed near any dangerous implements. Something about brain damage and not being entirely sane in the first place. I really could care less.

Around twelve years ago, at some point between the time we hit the dry spell and had to resort to the Scoretti job, I was involved in a car crash. Some typical teenage road speeding thing that left me with half a metal skull. The driver ended up like a poorly-made puzzle. It wasn't the best repair, not at all approved by a medical association, and it forces me to wear a mask. Well, that's an understatement. Sew a piece for skin over the visible metal is more like it. It makes me look like Ed Gein.

After getting out of the hospital I've been monitored, offered several replacements and alternatives, and been suspended from all medical procedures of any kind, on the dead or the living. I've been living off the government's money since I can't work. That, and harboring an anatomy school in my basement.

I've gotten used to the macabre going-ons, the occasional disappearance of members of the troupe while they were doing time and the police investigations. One member owned an apartment building, empty of residents, where we held any of autopsical events. It was all in the lower level, which had been renovated with secret rooms, soundproofing, and good insulation to contain the smell.

I guess I could consider it my life. It's the last thing I feel like giving up.


	2. Chapter 1

Hola, folks. I really wasn't expecting the first chapter to be up so fast, but here it is. There were a few errors in the prologue, but those should be all fixed. There is a lot of medical stuff in here, so be ready with your search engines.

BoSinclair's1andonlyLvr- I haven't really decided. It might just be a rewrite. But I'm open to suggestions.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything you recognize. If I did, I would not be stuck with such a slow computer.

* * *

I leaned against my desk, watching the morning anatomy class complete the autopsy of the caretaker. It had become a slow meticulous process compared to when they first started. I listened to them whisper among themselves, the click of instruments, the soft squish sound as something was laid on the scale. I pushed myself off the desk and walked over to the table, snapping my surgical mask over my nose. I grabbed a pair of gloves from the box and put them on, before walking over to where the saw was sitting next to his head. I cleared my throat and the class stopped what they were doing to strap the decedent down. "Did you know," I said slowly, slicing through the skin on his fore head with a scalpel. "That the brain keeps working six to ten minutes after the heart stops pumping blood to it?" I peeled down the forehead and wiped away the blood with a wad of gauze. "That's why in the days of the guillotine there were accounts of heads blinking, looking around, trying to talk. They also didn't know they were dead." I laid the saw along the skull after securing my safety glasses. "Everyone ready?" I asked, making sure they all had their splash shields.

"You see," I began after successfully removing the skullcap, another nod to Mr. Gein. "The brain itself feels no pain. Had the decedent been alive, he would not feel me cutting the sack that contains the brain and excising the parietal cortex. Who can tell me what it does?"

"It's common sense - it's your decision making skills," Jerry supplied.

"Yes, that's right. You get a cookie when we're done." I handed him the scalpel. "Your turn. What is your piece of choice?"

"The cerebellum, located in the hindbrain."

"What does it do?" I asked the class.

Ned raised his hand and I nodded at him. "It controls mostly movement, and things like your posture and balance. It also helps learn movement." Jerry handed off the scalpel.

"I'm removing the amygdala," he explained.

"It helps store and classify emotionally charged emotions," Lilia said from behind me. I turned to look at her and noticed she was out of breath and holding a file folder. "It plays a large role in producing our emotions, especially fear. It triggers responses such as sweaty palms, increased heartbeat and respiration, and stress hormone release." She arched her brows. "Your personal favorite, right, Morgan?"

I smiled at her. "Yes. But" - I looked her up and down - "Why are you filled with such urgency?"

"I was talking with one of the morticians at that graveyard we visited last night. The police know it was us. They're going to be looking for us. We have to leave. Now, if we want to get any progress. Here" - she handed me the newspaper - "It's got you in it. I thought you might want to keep it. To help your ego." She grinned at me.

I laid my safety glasses and pulled my mask down to my chin. "You heard her. We have to leave. Split up so it takes longer. Take back roads in cars, remote bus routes for as long as you can and then go on foot. Get to a remote town or something similar. News won't reach that far." I rubbed my eyes for a moment. "Let's go."

-x-

I was walking down some remote deserted road, carrying my autopsy/embalming briefcase and my composition book of putrefication notes. There were more than enough weapons in my briefcase and i was bound to find some roadkill to study.

I had hitchhiked more than I had during the Amery job, which was saying something. I'd been doing that for the past day and had run out of cars to flag about an hour ago. From the last sign I saw I was somewhere in Louisiana, which was some progress from Amarillo.

I glanced around as the smell of decay reached me. I frowned a bit and pulled my mask up in an effort to mask the scent. I groaned and began to follow it. There was either a couple corpses or a hell of a lot of roadkill. I stared out of the see of roadkill once I traced it, kicking one of the tiny carcasses near the edge. I had gotten used to the smell of putrefication, but this was just ridiculous. I crouched down near the edge and flipped open my composition book. "There is a lot of shit here," I commented, describing the levels of decay in my notes.

I glanced behind me as a rickety truck pulled up. The driver looked at me as I stood, getting poised to run. I grabbed my briefcase and studied him. "Hey," I called out. "You do this?" I gestured behind me. The pit reminded me of the Scoretti job.

"Yeah," he answered slowly, climbing into the bed to unload the animal carcasses. "Why?"

I shrugged after a moment. "No reason." I paused. "Is there a town around here or somethin'?"

"Yeah, uh, you need somethin'?"

"An escape route," I laughed, half talking about the police and half about the fact this was feeling like a horror movie. I hadn't decided whether I was the killer or the victim yet. "You mind driving me there?"

He threw the rest of the roadkill in the pit and looked at me. "If you don't mind helpin' me flip my hubs into four-wheel when the road washes out."

"No problem," I grinned. I climbed into the passengers side, laying my briefcase in my lap. I watched a rabbit's foot swing back and forth in front of me as we pulled away. I turned and studied him some more. There was an awkward silence as I did so.

"So, uh," he said, trying to make conversation. "What's in there?"

"This?" I asked, tapping my briefcase. "Medical stuff, but they're more like...torture implements." I racked my brain for a medical fact. "Did you know your more like to die of carbon dioxide poisoning in a completely sealed room than oxygen deprivation, and of lack or sleep rather than starvation?" I turned my attention to the windshield. "I've seen it." I decided to saw something back. "Nice knife."

"Oh, you like knives?" he asked and I nodded. "It's a bowie." He took it out, flipped it, and drove it into the dash. I grabbed it and examined it, gently running my hand along the edge. "Do you like it?"

"Yes," I answered, handing it back to him. We stopped where the road washed out and climbed out. We flipped the hubs in silence before resuming our journey. "So, this is it?" I asked as we pulled up near the sign reading 'Ambrose'. I glanced around. _What am I suppose to do now?_ I wondered.

"Hey, uh, I never got your name," the man said, and I turned my attention back to him. I could feel his eyes on the stitches.

"Morgan," I answered, extending my hand. "But most people call me 'Morgue'."

"Well, I'm Lester," he replied, shaking my hand. "It was nice meeting you, Morgue." I stepped out of the truck and looked around. I heard the door open behind me. I gave Lester an inquisitive look over my shoulder. He leaned against the hood of the truck. "Why are running away? Bad life a home?"

"Nope. I'm running from the police," I answered easily. "But I can't tell you the rest." I pressed a finger against my lips. "It's a secret." I turned back to the town. "So, I take it there's no motels in this place, are there?"

Lester shook his head. "No. But Bo might be willing to lend you a spot for the night at his house. He works at the gas station if you want to ask him."

I placed my free hand on my hip. "I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

*shakes tin can* Reviews?


	3. Chapter 2

Hello, folks. Here is the second chapter with Morgan's Stupid Moment - she goes into the House of Wax. Then again, if she didn't, we'd probably be here forever. If there are a few setting errors in this, I'm sorry because I don't have a copy of the movie right now. When I do, the exploration part might be revised.

**BoSinclair's1andonlyLvr-** Thanks. :)

**RainboneCaink-** I'm glad you think it's good. I hope I did them some justice in this chapter; it will improve in the next one.

**Disclaimer- **I don't own anything you recognize, although I really wish I did.

* * *

I stared out at the town as Lester left in his truck. I glanced behind me to make sure he was indeed gone and began to explore. There was the faint smell of decay floating around, but I couldn't tell whether it was the town that smelled or if the roadkill pit had stuck with me. I glanced in a pet store window and could barely see some machinery controlling one of the puppy's tail. I frowned and turned away. I approached the gas station and peered inside; when I didn't see anyone I huffed and slammed my fist against the door. I stared out at the rest of the town, leaning against the side of the building. The Building in the distance caught my eye, and I pushed off the wall with a small annoyed groan. I walked up the path toward it and laid a hand on the door; it was unlocked and if I knew anything about serial killers, seeing as I'd been there a time or two, unlocked buildings were a big no-no. But, having laughed in the face of danger twelve years ago, I shrugged it off and entered.

I decided that the place was old and smelled bad. I walked slowly through the first room, the glazed eyes of wax figures staring back at me and making me paranoid of some horrific doom, of being forever encased in the same position. I hadn't thought about that at all during the grueling process of arterial embalming, probably because of the age-old depersonalization technique. I couldn't quite see the wax figures as dead people, so it didn't really work. I ran my hand along the top of the chair, realizing that it was wax. I examined the walls and realized that everything was wax. It creeped me out. I proceeded to the next room and scanned every detail in the room out of habit. I picked up one of the peculiar figurines and studied the ornate signature. I placed it back down and went over to the piano, struck a chord experimentally, and upon discovering it worked, sat down on the bench. I racked my brain for something to play and decided on 'Moonlight'.

After the six minutes of music ended I froze. It was that stupid horror movie 'someone's-going-to-get-you' feeling. I quickly reached for my briefcase and took out the bottom tray, flipping out the false bottom. I grabbed my knife just in case, tying it at my waist. I reassembled it and flipped the clasps closed, stood, and resumed my tour. The feeling of the metal handle, cooled from going uncovered for so long, helped me keep some of my sanity. I glanced sideways at a dusty mirror and saw a figure through the window, but when I turned there was nothing. _Morgan,_ I thought idly. _You're such a hypocrite. Now you know what it feels like to be the hunted._ I sighed, blinked a few times, and pressed a hand against my forehead.

"Stupid, stupid Morgan," I told myself. "You are being really lame right now." I was distracted by ever so light footsteps and turned. I was half-expecting some epic sci-fi battle to the finish. I sighed again, and turned just in time to swing my briefcase into my attacker's side. It wasn't very effective, seeing as he delivered a hard blow to my head, enough to knock me out cold.

-x-

_What a bitch,_ I thought, groaning. My head was throbbing and I wished he would have hit something metal. I tried to put my hand against my head and heard the distinct rattle of chains. I opened my eyes, felt a stab of pain caused by a bright desk light. I quickly shut them, took a moment to collect my bearings, and opened them more slowly. As my eyes adjusted I glanced around the room, at the chains holding me in place, the prisoner accompanying me, and the person lying on what looked like someones autopsical table. The blond girl almost ran at me as I sat up, running my hand over the chain on the opposite wrist. I met her gaze.

"Are-are you okay?" she asked, and I could see her eyes zooming over the stitches on my face and the sewn-together eyelid. I stood as straight as I was able.

"I'm fine. Hey, chick, what's your name?"

"Um." She stuttered for a few moments as I pulled the chain taught, planning to kick it like the one on the cemetery gate. "Stephanie."

"Really? Stephanie. Well, my name is Morgan. Morgan...." I raised my foot. "...Daphne..." I brought it down on the chain, broke it, and turned to the other one. "DelRossi." I broke the other one and approached a table of tools. I removed the link on the cuff so I wouldn't make any noise and looked for something to pick the lock with. I didn't see me briefcase so I picked up a thin strip of metal. The first cuff fell off with a soft click and I laid it on the table.

"Aren't you going to help me?" Stephanie asked and I looked at her. I placed the second cuff on the table with a shrug and picked up a heavy duty knife. I examined it for a few moments and approached her.

"Above the wrist or bellow?" I inquired and she scooted away. "Relax, I'm a doctor. Not in the traditional sense, but, you know.... I'm serious. I'm on AMA." I tilted my head. "Are you confused? You see, I'm not going to go through so much trouble to get free and just let you out. It's not fair." I paused. "I'll decide for you." I grabbed her arm, held it still, and brought the knife down. She screamed and the chain clinked to the floor; I found myself holding her hand and only her hand. She was coddling the bloody stump to her chest. "How unfortunate," I commented, dropping the knife.

I walked over to the body on the autopsical table and leaned over it. I pressed a hand against his neck, finding a pulse, even if it was barely there. I clicked my tongue a few times and found myself face-to-face with a masked man. I studied him and snapped my fingers. "Oh, just my luck!" I mocked. "Ain't that right, Stephie? Yes, because the poor old resurrectionist is about to be on the other end of the fork! Oh-ho!" A second man tangled his hand in my hair and pulled me toward him. He was pulling my head back so I was looking at him upside down. Stephanie began screaming. "Oh, bitch, shut up or I'll fillet your hide!" I snarled, reaching out for something to make a point with rather than defend myself with. My hand closed around a handle and I threw the knife with such force it connected with the girl's shoulder and stayed there. "You think I was kidding?" I was from there dragged through some miscellaneous tunnel by the man holding my hair, leaving the other one there. I was forcefully thrown on some sort of bed type thing, oddly like a railed hospital bed.

I fought back, kicking mostly, and generally throwing useless insults. I heard the tear of a roll of duct tape and my arm was being strapped to the chair. I managed to twist the right way and kick him in the face. He backed up a bit, holding his nose, and I tried to grab at him with my free arm. He forced me back after walking to the other side and strapped that one down. He then proceeded to duct tape my legs together. We glared at each other for several moments before I burst into laughter, turning into my shoulder. I never expected to be in this position. "Oh, my god, this is fucking hilarious," I giggled, trying to calm myself back down. "Oh, oh, this is what I get. Hoo, karma's a bitch." I noticed that he was staring at me as if I'd belonged in a nuthouse. "All the answers you want are in my briefcase and composition book. You know, if you can stomach such things as putrification and autopsies and...vivisection." I grinned at him as he bent down dangerously close. "Pleased to meet you, I'm Morgan DelRossi, mortician, resurrectionist, murderer. Now, would you kindly tell me who you are so I don't have a stranger in my face?"

Stars swam before my eyes at the sharp pain across my cheek. "You don't believe me?" I managed, shaking them away. "Go look. Go on. Go look at it, look at it." I watched him retreat and looked at my bindings. "Well, this really sucks."


	4. Chapter 3

Greetings, folks. I'm sur I've never written this fast in my life. I might end up with a copy (even if only a rental) this week, so I can see how well I've been keeping to the real thing. I thank the random people who have taken the time to read this story, leaving a review or not. On to other things.

**BoSinclair's1andonlyLvr-** Oh, man. I'm sorry that Morgan...well...you'll see. Besides, who wouldn't want to be tortured by Bo? *From now on I'm calling you Stephie because your username is a pain to type everytime. Or is there something else you'd like to be called?

**Disclaimer-** I don't own anything you recognize. I can give you piece of a dark chocolate bunny, but that is all.

* * *

I watched him flip through the newspaper, trying to pry the duct tape off with my teeth. I decided in that moment that duct tape adhesive tasted really gross and that I never wanted to be in this position again. The duct tape made a ripping noise and I froze as he folded down the newspaper, catching me in the act. I grinned at him as he stood grabbed the roll of duct tape, and approached me. "Oh, come on," I whined, watching as he ripped off a piece. "Don't you want me to tell you all the perverted medical things I know? I know you--" He cut me off by placing the duct tape over my mouth. I made an annoyed noise and he went back to reading the paper. I glared at the room in general, cursing the fact that I knew the tables would turn one day and I'd be here instead of in the place of the handsome man reading my bio. I looked up at the grate above and stared at the sky, bored.

He folded up the newspaper and looked at me for a few moments. I studied him as I did everything, watching him stand, walk to where I was held captive, leaning over me as he held my wrists down. I narrowed my eyes and looked away but he forced my head back. I flinched a bit as he ripped the duct tape off my mouth. "Now do you believe me?" I asked, and he moved even closer. I tried to move my arm to push him away, but of course it was pointless. "Would you get out of my face?" I asked, but he had moved so close my lips brushed against his. I dropped my eyelids and took up a sultry expression. "Did you know embalming makes men so perfectly endowed? If you let me go, I'll see how you fair."

He chuckled. "Nice try." He cupped my chin and tilted my head. "But I want to know if you're really all you say you are." I squirmed a bit as he kissed my forehead.

"Yeah? How are you going to do that?"

"Well, that pretty girl down the hall - what's her name?"

"Stephanie."

"We're going to let her go, and you're going to get her. You have to bring her back, dead as a doornail."

"...Alright. But I want my knife. The switch. And let me offa this thing, it looks like a hospital bed and last time I was in a hospital --"

He grabbed my chin and raised his eyebrows. "Shut up." He slowly unraveled the duct tape. "If you run off, there will be hell to pay." He kissed my forehead again and laid a hand on my thigh. "Okay, Morgan?" I was tempted to drive my now free arm into his throat, but decided that would only get me six feet under. I heard a key jingle and reached for it, but he caught my arm. "No," he told me.

"Oh, c'mon. I've done fourteen jobs and never been to jail once. You better hope you never go to jail, 'cause your real pretty, and you'll come out with a size eleven asshole." I grinned at him. "You can trust me."

"I don't believe that. A nice girl like you, well...." He trailed off and I watched as he undid the duct tape on my other arm. "Don't move."

I shrugged. "I'm not going anywhere," I assured, massaging my wrist. "Can I have the key now?" He slit the duct tape around my legs and peeled it away from my jeans and rain boots and looked up at me. He slowly parted my legs.

"Why can't you just cut off her other hand?" he asked, laying his hands on my thighs and leaning foreword. I leaned foreword to meet him, and poised my fingers on either side of his neck.

"She might die of blood loss. I have to play doctor first." I grinned at him. "Stop, or you'll find yourself bleeding out on the floor." He stood and dropped the key to Stephanie's cuff in my lap. "Now, if I'm to do your bidding, would you tell me your name?" He looked at me for a moment.

"Bo," he answered dully, leading me back to where Stephanie lay in a heap.

I bent down and shook her shoulder. She automatically skittered away from me. "Hey, hey, relax." I stood and grabbed a curved needle and a spool of thread. I knelt by her again and thread the needle, laying it to the side as I looked at the knife protruding from her shoulder. "This will hurt," I informed her, figuring I couldn't give her any anesthetic since it would give me an advantage. I liked a fair fight. I removed the knife and let it fall to the ground with a clatter. I cleaned the wound, stitched it up, and grabbed the key from my pocket.

"Whose side are you on?" she asked me as I unlocked the cuff.

"Good question. Since my troupe is not here, I'm afraid I can't answer that. Now, I'm going to give you a ten second head start. One." She stared at me uncertainly. "Two." She bolted out of her position and up the stairs. I jumped a bit as I felt Bo press up against me, dangling my green enamel-handled switch in front of me. I took it and proceeded up the stairs after her.

I pushed open the doors of the House of Wax and found Stephanie running toward the main part of town. I took off after her and found myself close enough to tangle my hand in her hair and pull. She screamed, naturally, and turned to hit me in the stomach. I resisted the urge to double over and knocked her feet out from under her. "Oh, sorry, Stephie," I said easily, dropping myself onto her back. I ran the tip of the blade over her spine. "Spinal cord injuries can cause paralysis or death. For example, if I were to stab you here" - I laid the tip of the blade in the lumbar region of the spine - "You would be a paraplegic. Here" - I laid it against the base of her skull - "You'd be dead. It's nothing personal. Hot guys can make you do strange things. But I'm not doing this because the hot guy told me to. If I was going to let you live, you could have Googled me. What a shame." I drove the knife in and she fell limp. I pulled the knife out and wiped the blood off on my pants.

-x-

I laid the decedent on the ground with a gentle thump. The weird autopsical room was now empty, and I looked at it with mild amusement. Whoever had done it had known what they were doing. I stared down into a bubbling vat of wax and pieced it together. This place smelled bad because it smelled like putrification because the pretty people upstairs were only semi-wax. "I've got to hand it to you," I said at the arrival of footsteps. "I'm impressed." I turned, staring at a blank face that most certainly wasn't human and ripped off the mask. "This you could do a bit better on."


	5. Chapter 4

Hello, folks. A few notes about the story. _The Principles and Practice of Embalming_ is an actual book. I've never fully read it. And what Morgan means about eyecaps in the end, she doesn't like the figures staring at her. Eyecaps are like those things on roads, you can drive foreward but you can't drive back or you'll lose your tires.

**Stephie- **Hehe. I don't think I'd mind either.

**RainboneCaink-** Thanks. I'm really worried about this going down hill. Thanks for the reassurance.

**Disclaimer-** I don't own anything you recognize.

* * *

We stared at each other, studying defects and facial expressions. I could see every nerve in his body fighting the urge to push me over into the vat of wax. I lowered my head, wondering if I was venturing too far in my next statement. "You know, I'm a doctor. Well, no, not really. But I do have a lot of experience in reconstruction. I ended up having to reconstruct the face of a man who got his face sheered clean off by a boiler explosion. It wasn't pretty." I looked up at him. "As I've mentioned, I'm quite impressed with your...handiwork." I thrust the mask at him and he snatched it away. I explored the room. "I'm a mortician. That means I make dead people pretty. You, sir, have found a way of embalming the successfully eliminates superficial deterioration - you can't see them rotting," I clarified, doubting he knew what I was saying. "I'm not quite sure about the other unfortunalities of death. I suppose...when the wax comes in contact with the skin, it causes the muscles to contract. I guess it's like roasting a chicken, it seals in...." I trailed off, examining the shower contraption.

"You're much more clever than me. I don't really care about leaving my victims in plain sight. I can't go to jail. I have a medical excuse," I gestured at my face. "I don't think I would have thought of something like this in a lifetime. I guess I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Oh, my ego." I placed a hand over my heart. "My troupe would love this. Alas, since we are being hunted for the third time in our lives, I have no way of contacting them. Besides, I don't think you'd want a bunch of anatomy and embalming students looking over your shoulder all the time. It's annoying after a while." I sighed and turned to face him.

"Jesus, Morgan, I underestimated you," Bo commented as he crouched down over the decedent. "Welcome to the team." He threw an arm around my shoulders and I noticed Vincent rolling his eyes.

"Wait - we're a team now?" I asked, pushing him away. "_I_ have a team. The only problem is that they're scattered throughout the southern United States until the search is called off. Poor Larry with his apartment. They're going to be asking him all these questions and they're going to bug his phone. Hold on. I'll call him. This place is so fucking remote they won't track it. Out of my way, I'm on a mission! ...Where's the phone?"

I was sitting on the edge of a rickety chair in an insanely dirty house, dialing the number to the apartment office and hoping Larry would answer. I drummed my fingers on the table, keeping my eyes on Bo, who was sitting across from me, and generally feeling annoyed. On the fifth ring, he picked up and gave a cheery greeting. "Yo, Lar, it's Morgan."

_"Morgue! Jesus Christ, what are you doin'?"_

"I'm calling to figure out when you think the search is gonna be called off."

_"Um, I don't know, a few days. You know what? You owe me."_

"And how do I owe you?" I rolled my eyes.

_"You guys all left me here alone! I'm lonely, Morgan! You should have stayed, you have a medical excuse."_

"Yeah, but that excuse can't keep me out of the funny farm. I don't want the people in the white coats to think I'm some nutso."

_"Morgan, you are a nutso. You have a serial killer school in the basement."_

"It's not a serial killer school," I protested, inching away as Bo reached across the table. "It's an anatomy and embalming school."

_"And where do you get the corpses--"_

"Do not say stiff, corpse, cadaver. Say decedent or remains of Mr. Blank."

_"That's from a book._ The Principles and Practice of Embalming. _As I was saying, were do you get the _decedents _for the practices? Sane people do not dig up graveyards."_

"You're a hypocrite," I said shortly. I glared a Bo as he grabbed my arm, resisting the urge to brain him with the receiver. "Oh, hey, is Lilia okay?"

_"She should be. She went off with Rick. Rick's, like, you're second in command, right?"_

"Yeah," I answered, relieved that our youngest and only other female member had made it out okay. "That's all. See you." He bid good-bye and I laid the phone down on the cradle. As soon as I did I was pulled into Bo's lap.

"Who's Lilia?" he asked, breathing down my neck. "Is she...pretty?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," I murmured, trying to break free. I was apparently strong enough to dig a grave but not strong enough to escape. I twitched as he kissed my neck, pulling at his arms and kicking his shins. "You are such a perv," I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest.

"I've been called that," he whispered, forcing his hands up my shirt. The door swung open and I brightened at the familiar drawling voice.

"Les. Help. Me," I begged in a dull voice.

"You've met Lester?" Bo asked. "How else would you get here," he added as a second thought. I was pulled out of his grip and hid behind Lester's back.

"You do that again and I will break your nose," I threatened, holding on to Lester's sleeve. He stood and I cowered some more. "I never agreed to be part of your...team. My troupe is a lot better. They have been loyal to me for fourteen years! They are my pride and joys! I love them to bits."

"Don't you love me?" Bo asked, pointing at his chest.

"No," I answered flatly.

-x-

I found myself back in the House of Wax, sitting on the piano bench and being quiet for one of the rare moments in my life. It had remained as creepy as when I first went in, and I wondered if I could get used to seeing it and knowing what it really was. I was used to just flat out death: a slit throat, an execution-style shooting, a broken neck. I preferred seeing an old man lying in a coffin, knowing he was dead and being able to tell. Cool flesh, pale complexion, rigid yet yielding form. There were the things that happened after death, maybe not as bearable to most people, the smell of formaldehyde and cadaverine and such. I stood and walked over to one of the figures. I looked at its unchanging face and decided the world was a whole lot happier with eyecaps.


	6. Chapter 5

This one is shorter than the rest. All well. I finally got a copy of the movie so it doesn't have to go on hiatus when the rewrite starts. I'm debating on whether or not to bring Rick and Lilia in this. Also, I'm starting to think Morgan is the oldest OC in this category. She's almost thirty-six. At any rate, on with the show.

**Stephie-** Yeah, I'm kind of jealous, too. :)

**RainboneCaink- **Thanks.

**Disclaimer-** I own nothing you recognize. I have nothing of value to give if you sue me.

* * *

I stared down at the piano keyboard, lazily playing 'Moonlight' again. I liked the way the haunting music filled the entire house. I glanced at the wax figures around me and shuddered. Their frozen faces were looking at me. I turned my attention to the doorway as the entrance opened and swung shut, and Lester practically skipped out in front of me, holding a rope. "Hey, Morgue, look what I found," he said excitedly. I stood and walked around the piano.

"It's a dog," I said flatly, arching a brow. "I'm not sure Bo would like a dog hanging around all the time."

"Yeah, but if you ask him to keep the dog, he might do it. He really likes you."

I scoffed. "He'll jump anything with a pulse." I groaned. It was the stupid kid-in-a-candy-store, Mom-I-want-it look. "Les, don't do that. That's really lame." The dog was giving the look now, too, wagging his tail and sniffing at my hand. "Alright," I relented, throwing my hands up. "Just stop doing that. Both of you. Now give me the leash." We walked out to the town, asking each other pointless questions and talking to the dog. We arrived at the gas station, where Bo was doing something with his truck. I didn't really understand mechanics. "Hey, um, Bo?" I began.

"Yeah, sweetie?"

I blinked a few times and shook my head. "I have a question."

Bo turned and leaned against the truck. He then noticed the dog. "No," he said firmly.

"Oh, come on," I begged, grabbing his arm. "I take trades."

He eyed me cynically. "Are you going to break my nose?"

"No," I lied, offering the sultriest expression I could manage. He stared off into the distance for a moment.

"Alright," he said finally. Lester and I walked off. I turned to him.

"You owe me," I told him, shoving the leash at him. "What are you going to name it?"

"I don't know. I hadn't gotten that far. What would you name it?"

I made an exasperated noise. We were now sprawled out in the middle of the road. "I don't know."

"Oh, Morgue. You have to have some idea."

"Um. Ben. No, wait, Ben is the decapitated head. Ben is very nice. He's not big on conversation, though. But, the dog - I'd name him Mort."

"Mort?" Lester asked critically.

"Hey, you asked. I -oof." The dog was lying across my stomach. "Lame!" I exclaimed.

"He likes you, Morgue," he commented, patting the dog's head.

"Oh, yeah, I feel so appreciated." I rolled my eyes. "Help. I can't breath." The dog stepped on me as it got up. I sat up, hugging my stomach. "God, he's heavy." I glared at Lester. "Why did you make me do that?"

"He's cute."

"I'm sorry. Did you just say he was...cute? Are you sane?"

"No."

"Well, neither am I. What are we going to do with the Beast?"

"I don't know."

-x-

"MORGAN! LESTER! GET THIS DOG OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

"It's not your house. It's our house, too," Lester countered, throwing a hand over my shoulder.

"If you keep yelling like that, the deal is off," I threatened, slipping out the door. It was dark; I crossed my arms and stared at the empty town. I figured I'd been here two days, and still had to lie low for who knew how many more. I frowned, wondering on the safety of the troupe. A few moments later Lester poked his head out of the door.

"Hey, Morgue, there's a call for you. Some guy named Rick." I creased my brow and marched back into the house, grabbed the phone off the counter, and leaned against the wall.

"Larry gave you the number, right?"

_"Yeah. You're living with guys now, huh?"_

"Dude. There are six guys in the troupe. Poor Lilia."

_"She's fine. Here, I'll put her on."_

_"Morgan?"_

"Yeah?" I grinned at the sound of the younger woman's voice.

_"I miss pear blossoms."_ She paused. _"I have to go. Bye."_

The line went dead and I placed the phone back in the cradle. "What did you people do with my briefcase?" I asked. Bo disappeared and reappeared holding the case. I snatched it away and sat on the floor. "This is the accident." I threw a newspaper on the floor. "This is the seminar." I tossed another one. "This is my picture of the troupe." I held it aloft. "All of these people are dedicated to me." Bo, I knew, was staring at Lilia. "You cannot have that. I fully apologize if any of them call the house in the next number of days. I'll be gone in a few."

"Oh, but Morgan," Bo crooned, grabbing me in a hug. "I don't want you to leave. Don't leave."

"Have to. Not unless you want more additions to your...team." I frowned and stood. "I'll be back," I reassured as Bo caught my arm. _I think I hate him,_ I mused, walking down the porch. _Damn him for being so pretty._


	7. Chapter 6

I am back, folks. This one is kind of short, but I'm focused on my state testing and an English project. (Wish me luck! I'm almost a freshman.) Anyway, the more I wrote this chapter, the more I realized that Morgan and Vincent are alike and that Morgan's Ambrose experiance is like the Peanut Song. (Does anyone else get it?) Here we go.

**Disclaimer-** I own nothing you recognize. I wish I was that rich.

* * *

I stared at my reflection in the mirror of the blue-tiled bathroom, musing on starting my third day in the middle of nowhere. I pushed a hand through my knotted hair and observed the stuff that had been pilfered from previous victims: combs, hair brushes, miscelanious brands of shampoo and conditioner, and a ridiculously large pile of make-up. I picked up a comb and dragged it through my hair, looking at the stitches running in a crooked line down my face. I grabbed two of the bottles at random and undressed, stepping into the shower. I pulled the curtain shut and paused before turning the handle. I zoned out under the water until a voice broke my thoughts. "Thought you might like some company." No, I really didn't want company. This was going a tiny bit too far. I looked over my shoulder and resisted the urge to turn into some swooning teenager.

_Damn him for being so pretty!_ I thought, eyeing the way Bo's hair was falling out of place. "Can you, um, leave?" I asked slowly.

"You owe me for letting you and Les keep that dog," he reminded me. "Whatever I want, right?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean you can ambush me in the shower. Go away or-or I'll cry." I really didn't want to, but I forced myself to. After a few moments of ridiculous sobbing I turned to face him. "There! Had enough?" I had wanted to say, but any retort died upon seeing his gloriously naked form. I was determined to keep my dignity. "Okay, I'll scream." I opened my mouth to do so when there was a storm of barking. Bo fell over, dragging the curtain down with him. Mort was investigating as Lester peered in.

"Morgue, are you alright?" he asked, noticing that Bo was sprawled on the bathroom floor.

"No, just get him out of here," I said irritably, pointing at the door.

"You should never bother a woman in the shower, especially if it's Morgue," Lester chided.

"Oh, yeah you're one to talk, leering at every woman that comes through this town," Bo shot back, pulling on his pants.

"I've been traumatized," I whispered, snatching up my towel. "My poor dignity. Damn him." I glared as Lester reappeared.

"Oh, by the way, we tried washing your clothes, but...the dryer...ate them," he explained, giving me a sheepish grin. I lowered my head in defeat and turned away. I decided that the men outside the troupe were hopeless. "Um--" I snatched my torn jeans away from him and gave him my best death glare.

"Don't do anything for me ever again," I growled, and he almost cowered. "I would very much like a shirt. Give me your shirt."

"But you said--"

"Nuh!" I shouted shortly. He relented after a moment, tossing it at me. I hastily pulled on the clothes I had and grabbed my rain boots, afraid they might meet some horrorific doom. I yanked them on and stormed out, trying make myself seem as pissed off as possible so people would stay away.

-x-

I stared at the paralyzed faces in the wax, running my fingers over their features as I descended the stairs. Vincent was watching me from the bottom and I looked at him for a long moment, trying to read his expression from that one visible eye. "Do you hate me?" I asked him finally. He studied me and shook his head. "So, you're just not a people-person." He nodded this time. "I see." I set my hands on my hips. "I'm jealous. I'm not this clever. Hiding victims in plain sight. And I've been doing this for fourteen years. Apparently I'm not the most crafty killer out there." I grinned at him. "But your work is pretty. Mine is that horse fetus upstairs." I pressed a hand against my forehead. "Oh, the troupe would adopt you as their new teacher. You'd steal my lovely Lilia." I lept up onto the work table and he glared at me. "You're my rival now," I declared and jumped off the table. I stared jealously at the area again. "So, all of these places are like, connected, right? That's cool. I have to use an elevator. How lame. This place is like the Batcave for serial killers." I looked at him again, mildly disturbed about not seeing his face. "I envy you. Really, I do." I grinned. "But you see, we're quite the same. Lonely hermit mortician serial killers with facial disfigurements who live in basements. Irony." I pressed a hand against my face. "Oh, it's like some cheesy, made-for-TV romance." I smiled. "I'm kidding. Technically, I'm claimed. I had no say in it whatsoever. And it's just by your brother, you know." I glanced around again. "Boy, it's lame talking to a wall."

"I talk," he said quietly after a moment.

"So you do. Once a year, right?" I teased, giving him a good natured grin. He glared at me and I held my hands up in defence. "Alright, alright, I won't bother you anymore. Today. But if you feel the urge to come talk to me, I will be at the piano. I'm jealous of that, too," I added, slowly walking up the stairs.


	8. Chapter 7

Hola, folks. This one's shorter, but it leads up to something. The origin of the chick when Carly and Wade show up. Isn't she Miss Ambrose in the theatre? Anyway, I have to give credit to my Social Studies teacher for the Bob the Plant thing. My teacher is nuts. If you're late to his class, you have to stand in the corner with Robert Plant (if you don't know who he is, Google him). Plus he has all these freaky stories about past students. But enough about him. By the way, Morgan's "County Morgue" line is how we screen our calls. :)

**Stephie-** Yeah, but for us it's the OATs. Ohio Acheivement Test. I love the acronym though. I have one more tomorrow. I'm really glad.

**Disclaimer-** Don't own, don't sue.

* * *

I closed my eyes and leaned back against the tree, holding the joint loosely in my right hand. I really liked stupid teenagers these days. I slowly stared around Ambrose, savoring my euphoria and the wonderful effect of this wonderful pot. This was quickly ruined by Bo marching down the street. "Morgue," he greeted, observing my hippie moment.

"County Morgue, you stab 'em, we slab 'em, how can I help you today?" I asked slowly, taking another pull. "Would you like to sit with me and Bob the Plant?"

Bo stared at me for a few moments. "What?"

"Bob the Plant. You know, Robert Plant? Musician? Never mind....Did I ever tell you how pretty you are?" I stared up at him with a goofy expression. "Because, you know, you're pretty. Somewhere between guy-pretty and girl-pretty. Don't go to jail or--"

"Yeah, yeah, I'd come out with a size eleven asshole. Are you alright?"

"I don't know, man, meth is one hell of a drug."

"You're not doing meth. That's weed."

"Yeah. It's damn good weed. You can't have any. It's mine."

"You stole it from me," he pointed out, dropping down next to me. He snatched the joint away from me and took a drag. I managed to glare at him. He offered it to me and i shook my head.

"I don't want it anymore. It's got your germs on it." I pushed his hand away. "Vincent should join us. We'll have a pot party." I pulled out the bag of marijuana and a paper and started making another joint.

"That freak?" he scoffed after a moment, raising his eyebrows. "No way."

I spit-sealed the joint and pulled out a lighter. "You don't like him very much, do you? Must be a sibling rivalry thing. I don't have any siblings. I have hot med students."

"I'm not hot?" he asked, leaning impossibly close. I inched around the other side of the tree. "Well, aren't I?"

"I'm not answering. But, I'm probably not the hottest, youngest chick to come around here. So, why do you find me so...alluring?"

"You're the only chick who hasn't tried to run away," he informed me from the other side.

"Dude," I said flatly, gesturing around. "I have half a face. Your brother has a face, maybe it's not so pretty, but he has all of his face and all of his skull. I have 56% of my original face and like, 34% of my actual skull. The wonders of bionic technology and my wonderful students."

"Where are you going with this?" I decided he was annoyed.

"I have three points. One, speed kills. Two, start loving your brother. Three, leave me alone. I'm not pretty. I'm a mortician and a resurectionist and an executionist. I'm not supposed to be wanted. It doesn't make sense." I threw my hands up. "You're breaking the rules. That's a big no-no." I stood and started toward the town. "Don't go breaking the rules. Bad stuff happens." I stuffed my hands in my pockets and stared around at the town. I could hear him following me. I ducked into Lester's truck and said person stared at me. "Drive."

He slid into the driver's seat. "Where?"

"I don't know, drive," I said, shrugging.

"You don't like him very much," Lester commented as we passed by Bo, noticing I was sticking my tongue out.

"No. He can't win," I said firmly, crossing my arms. "Oh" - I sighed and pressed my hand against my face - "But he's so pretty. I don't know if I can do it. No! I can! I must! For my dignity and sanity! And he'll ruin me for other men! If I have to go back, I'll be left wanting him!" I sighed again. "Of course, you wouldn't understand. You're not a woman."

I watched him blink for a few moments, trying to think of what to say. He shook his head. "You know, there's some kids up here. I saw 'em earlier."

"Really?" I thought for a moment. "Hey, Les," I said slowly. "You...wanna play a game?"


	9. Chapter 8

Okay, this one's longer. Sorry I haven't updated in so long. I turned fourteen on the eleventh and I was trying to get myself out of the habit of thinking I was twelve. It didn't work. At any rate, here is the next installment!

_(Text like this is a flashback. All flashbacks are in third person POV.)_

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing you recognize.

* * *

I crouched in the cover of a grove of trees along the side of the barren highway, watching Lester's truck crawl next to the two walking teenagers. I watched one of the girls give a mildly disgusted expression at the truck's adornments and look away, a hand covering her mouth. It was really dark by now and I was waiting for them to run away from him. They were stupid arrogant teenagers, so they didn't know that wandering in someone else's turf is a big no-no. But I'm really not one to talk. The two girls quickened their pace and moved toward the front of the truck. A heard the engine rev, a pair of startled screams, and a squeal of brakes. The sounds repeated and I watched the two teenagers bolt.

Show time.

I pursued them in the cover of the trees, watching them run across the road and into my sanctuary. I slowed, trying to be as quiet as possible until I got closer. I veered off a few feet and walked parallel to them, purposefully stepping on a large twig when I came across a tree large enough to hide my presence. I slowly peered around the tree and found them looking around, thankfully not in my direction. I crossed quickly behind them, making a lot of noise, and hid behind a new tree. I repeated the action, this time in front of them. One of the girls came just close enough for me to slit her throat from behind. Her body hit the ground with a loud thump. The other turned to look at me.

"Quick and easy or slow and painful?" I inquired, brushing hair away from my face to show the grotesque appearance of my stitches. She backed up slowly, breathing hard, eyes flicking from the switch in my hand to my face. "Sorry, chick," I said with a slick smile. "Is it just me, or are kids these days getting stupider? Why, one time, this boy" - I took a step forward as she stepped back - "he was a nice boy, but he got a little too curious. Broke into this abandoned apartment building in Amarillo, discovered the worst thing you could possible imagine. Skeletal models, decaying bodies, Ben the decapitated head. But don't worry. You're in good hands." I gave one last grin before she ran off, heading toward Ambrose. "However, I'm afraid you've made the mistake of your life." I put my hands in my pockets and leaned against a tree as I watched her retreating form.

-x-

"Jeez, Morgue, I didn't expect you to be so strong," Lester commented as I carried the fresh corpse bridal style. I shrugged momentarily.

"It's not easy to dig a grave and haul a body," I answered, laying the body in the back of the truck and hopping in the bed to drag it further back. "You should have seen me in med school. Everyone was afraid of me. This was before I found the need for speed and demolished my face." I jumped down and walked to the passenger's side door. "I got in a fight with this guy and, like, almost gouged his eye out. He didn't tell nobody 'cause after I did that, he knew I would do something worse if I found out."

"What was his excuse?"

"Hunting accident, I think. I don't remember, it was a long time ago, and meth is one hell of a drug."

"What?"

"What?" I gave him a blank expression and we both ended up grinning. I reached for the radio, tuning for something other than the preset operatic music. I blinked a few times upon finding a rock station playing Blue Oyster Cult's "Career of Evil". I smiled, "How fitting." The truck rolled over the washed out road, throwing all of us around. I watched as Bo drug the girl across the street, who obviously hadn't figured out that he was one of us.

"Yo, chick," I said shortly as I stepped out of the truck. "Miss us?" I gave a quick grin at Bo and walked toward the House of Wax. "You two play nice now."

"Oh, Morgan, you don't want to join us?" Bo asked, and I glanced over my shoulder to another realization that he was just too pretty.

"Oh, sorry, _babe_, I don't do three-ways." I waved my hand around in a strange attempt to make my point.

"You know, it never hurts to try something new," he said slowly, laying his arm across the now frightened girl's collar bone.

"How do you know I haven't?" I countered, hastening my pace. I plopped down on the piano bench once I reached the museum. I sighed heavily and closed my eyes.

_(The dark haired mortician leaned against the brick exterior of the Helenka Funeral Home, arms crossed, cigarette held between two fingers. She squinted through the stream of some as she exhaled, watching the polished oak casket get lowered into the ground. She frowned briefly, pushed herself off the wall, and strode onto the gravel path toward the wrought iron gate. A shorter, smaller blond girl tagged after her._

_"Um," the blond said after a moment, struggling to match the other's pace._

_"Can I help you, chick?" The question hung in the air for a while. "Well?"_

_"A guy...a guy named, um, Rick, said you might be able to help me."_

_The dark haired woman chuckled, dropping her cigarette without stubbing it out. "Is that so?"_

_"I--"_

_"What do you need?"_

_"I can't afford med school, and I want to go so I can help my mom. She's really sick."_

_"What a sob story," the older woman yawned, looking bored._

_The blond stepped in front of her suddenly, infuriated. "I don't like people making fun of me. Now, you're going to show some respect or I'm going to rat you out."_

_"Chick, listen," the other said shortly, pushing her out of the way. "You're not even twenty. Maybe you'll come across some money. Besides, I don't have time to be teaching some ignorant teenager things that you shouldn't be wanting to know. You probably couldn't handle it."_

_"Stop treating me like a kid."_

_"You are a kid!" the dark haired woman snapped. "And, humor me, how is a kid going to handle sitting at her mother's bedside, watching her die, and thinking 'That's my mother. What did she do to deserve this?' If you can't stand watching your poor old mother die, you can't stand what I have to teach. It isn't like those medical shows on TV. It's flesh and organs and secretions and decay. Now leave me alone." The blond girl caught the woman's sleeve._

_"Just give me a chance.")_

I shook my head to bring myself out of my reverie and was startled to find Vincent looking at me from a little ways off. I blinked, the last words of the flash back echoing in my mind. "Vincent," I said slowly. "We've established that you don't hate me. Do you trust me now?" I stood, walking around the bench to stand in front of him. I didn't get a answer and made an exasperated noise. "Dammit, it's like talking to a wall!" I exclaimed, turning and throwing my hands up.

"I...trust you," Vincent answered.

"Okay! So you don't hate me and you trust me. Do you like me in friend way, like Les?"

"I don't know."

"That's okay. It's a start. I feel loved anyway." I patted him on the shoulder and grinned.


	10. Chapter 9

I feel kind of guilty that I haven't updated in so long. But, since the majority of my friends are on vacation right now, I got bored and took this up again. The rewrite should show up in the next chapter or so, and I've decided I'm stretching the events of the movie out a bit. If it gets too contorted, let me know.

_(Text like this is flashbacks/dreams)_

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing you recognize and am making no money off this fic. I wish I was. I could use some.

* * *

_(The mortician stared across the large stately ballroom, looking ultimately bored, holding a glass of red wine in one hand. She sighed, sipping the wine and nodding briefly at a group of men on one side of the room. The blond girl nervously strode over to her and adopted a similar pose: leaning against the wall, arms somewhat crossed, glaring at the room's inhabitants. "So...you showed." The dark haired woman exchanged a glance with a tall brunette man across the room. "I wasn't expecting that. You've got guts, kid." She swirled the wine around in the glass purposefully. "It really does look like blood. That's why they use it in church services. Blood of Christ, my ass."_

_"Why did you ask me here?"_

_"To see if you're a lemming."_

_"I...don't get it."_

_The mortician smiled. "Of course you don't. You're gonna run off the cliff after the rest of the troupe, huh?"_

_"What?"_

_"Rick." The mortician pushed herself off the wall, walking over to the tall brunette, who was gathered with more men. "And the rest of my fabulous troupe. This child wishes to be accepted into our group. Shall we go?" She dropped the glass, causing it to shatter and the wine to soak the white tile floor. The blond stared at it for a moment before following the group.)_

I fell asleep. Damn.

I stood from the couch, carefully stepping over Mort and walking into the kitchen. "Hello, Morgan," Bo greeted and I glared at him. The thought of being vulnerable and unaware in the presence of this man sent a shiver down my spine. "Have a nice nap?"

"Bite me," I muttered with a look that wasn't as convincing as I wanted it to be. He chuckled and ruffled my hair. "Go away."

"You came to me," he pointed out, wrapping his arms around my waist. "Does that mean you're giving in?"

"NO," I answered in a loud voice, glaring some more. "I'm not going to give in to someone like you. It's...degrading."

"You break my heart, Morgue. You really do."

"Yeah...." I turned and walked out of the kitchen. "Sure.... 'Cause I'm so...Miss America."

"It's what's inside that counts!"

I paused. "What...are you on?" I asked slowly, taking several steps away. "It's not that pot, is it? Because you don't need to be loosing anymore braincells. It won't be 'House of Wax', it'll be 'Bo's Demented Pot-Fueled Opera'." I arched my brows. "We don't want that. Granted, we wouldn't get arrested, but we'd get thrown in a mental institution for sure. I'll let you know now, if that ever happens I'm high-tailing it back to Amarillo."

"Oh, I thought we were going to be together forever," he whined, lifting me over his shoulder.

"No! NO!" I pounded my fists into his back. "Mort, help!" The dog just looked at us and wagged his tail. "Damn you!" I sagged in defeat. At this point Mort bumped into Bo's legs in some insane rush to the door, knocking us over to where Bo's head was on my stomach. "Asshole!" I declared.

"Oh, Morgue, I knew you loved me!"

"Oh, whoa, am I...interrupting...something?" Les asked slowly, kneeling on the floor rubbing the dog's stomach.

"It's not what it looks like!" I babbled quickly. "Get off, get off!" _I'm dead, I'm dead. That's it, I'm dead and this isn't really happening. Not happening, not happening, Oh, Canada.... _I looked around, noticing the weight on my lower half was gone. I sprang up putting my hand on Bo's forehead. "What's wrong with you? Are you sick?" I expected much more of a fight. "You're not sick, are you? I don't think I can handle that." The horror of taking care of this terribly perverted man, who would probably end up making me wear some skimpy nurse's uniform, was too much. It would scar my sanity, not that I was all that sane to begin with. I stopped, walked a few feet over to one of the walls and slid down it. "Damn!" I muttered, resting my chin on my knees. _I hope the search is called off soon. I'm not sure how much of this I can take anymore._

Bo gave a small cough. "You know what? I think I might be coming down with something." I glared once again. He'd picked up on my train of thought.

"You better hope to God you're kidding," I threatened, raising my eyebrows.


	11. Chapter 10

Bam! Rewrite time! And I've gotten to chapter 10. I'm really proud of myself for not giving this up so far. This chapter is really short because I'm (for once in my life) trying to work on a school thing right away. If I didn't have to do two projects for my Honors English class, I could relax until August. Well, at any rate, here is the next installment and I hope it turned out well!

* * *

"Where are you going?" I asked Bo, trailing after him around the house. He looked at me briefly and shrugged.

"I don't know. Out," he answered, slipping his car keys in his pocket.

"Can I come with you?" I continued, still following him as he entered the living room. He stopped suddenly and I ran into him.

"...Why?"

I huffed. "Because I'm _bored_," I whined, grabbing the lapels of his shirt and sagging. "It's sooo boring here. Take me with you." He seemed mildly disturbed by my display and relented. "So, where are we going?" I asked cheerfully as he started up the truck.

He stared at me for a moment. "I don't know."

"Oh, well, it's just that everything about you looks so covered in blood. How ominous."

"You _are_ covered in blood." I looked at my ever-faithful rain boots and grinned.

"Alright. You got me. But what are we doing?" He glared at me for a painfully long time. "The road please. Please, look at the road. The road, the road!" I shouted, grabbing the wheel and turning it to keep us from wiping out. It brought back the memory, after the med convention, meeting the safety wall on that highway head-on. "Okay, I won't ask anymore." I crossed my arms and looked out the window. There was silence for a moment.

"Well, if you really wanna know," he said in a slow teasing voice.

"Oh, yeah! I wanna know!" We sounded like two kids bickering about some new rumor, like some kid called the teacher 'Mom' or pissed his pants at recess. "Tell me, tell me!"

"Alright....Well, I heard a whole bunch of commotion up here earlier. So...."

"Yeah! Let's go." I was practically jumping out of my seat. The truck rolled down what could barely be called a road and pulled up between some trees. The headlights shined right on the campers. "What an ugly shade of yellow," I muttered, leaning forward. They were all staring up at us, squinting through the headlights.

"Yeah?" one of them said.

"No," I countered.

"Hey, yo, man, you need somethin'?" another asked.

"Perhaps," Bo joined in.

"Hey, can you turn your lights off, please?"

"We can..." I led off.

"But we won't," Bo finished.

"Hey, man, turn your lights off."

"Say please," I yawned.

"Hello!"

"Hi," Bo answered shortly.

"Turn your lights off." There was a pause. "I'm serious, man, turn them off or I'm whuppin' someone's ass."

"Like to see you try." My comment was followed by the shattering of glass. One of the thugs had busted our headlight. "Asshole. I'm gonna get you for that."

"What?!" Yellow-boy shouted. Bo gave him an annoyed look and backed up. I looked at him.

"That was an adventure, wasn't it?" I commented as we headed back toward Ambrose. "What now?" He shrugged in response and I huffed. "You're no fun."

"You want fun?" he asked, stopping. I pressed myself against the door.

"No. I changed my mind."

"Oh, come on." He crawled over to me and I laid my hand on the door handle.

"S-Sexual harassment, dude. I'll sue you."

"Morgue--"

"NO! Talk to my attorney!" I shouted, slamming my palm into his forehead. "Now. Drive. Or I'm leaving."

"If you say so." He started driving. "But if you change your mind again...."

"No! Final answer!" I crossed my arms but kept the door handle in reach. I managed to get back to Ambrose without another moment of terror and marched into the house.

Les glanced at me. "Are you okay?"

"No. We have a busted headlight and a lawsuit."

"What?"

"It's a long story. Anyway. There's some dorky-looking teenagers up the road. This town finally has some excitement."


	12. Chapter 11

Yes! It's the long awaited eleventh chapter of The Art of Death! YAY! I started this is study hall, so if anything seems a little weird, it's because I was more focused on getting ready for Biology and going home. In said study hall I tried to recall some things, but if they're inaccurate, I'm sorry. At any rate, it would make me overjoyed if the two other people who favorited this story would review. I'm pretty sure after this is posted we'll have our thousand hits, so look for that in BDP-FO. Also, thank you Stephie for favoriting me as an author. YOU HAVE MADE ME HAPPIER THAN A HIPPIE WITH POT. I'm not sure I'm allowed to say that sort of thing, so yeah....

**Diclaimer**- I own nothing you recognize. No matter how many times you bat your eyelashes, you'll get no money from me!

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I stared at the yellowed newspaper in mild amusement, milling over the fact that I wasn't the only resident in the Sinclair house to have my face in the paper. It was a local issue, dated back some time ago, detailing the birth of the Sinclair twins. I made a face at how grotesque the article made the conjoinment seem and folded the paper in my lap. Had I been older and had the amenities I have now back then, I could have fixed them in a jiff. Being sons of a doctor, I would have expected a better job. Maybe a little reconstructive surgery or something on poor Vincent's face. I picked their baby picture and stared at it for a moment. I then tore it, separating the twins, and tossed it and the newspaper back in the top drawer of the dresser.

Footsteps sounded behind me. I turned to see Lester, looking as cheery as ever. "Hey, uh," he began in his usual way. "I was going to pick up some o' the roadkill and maybe check on those kids. D'you wanna come?"

I shook my head and felt bad as his expression drooped. "Sorry, Les, but I've got my own stuff to do. I'll see you later, okay?" He nodded solemnly and walked out the front door. I watched his truck pull out of the driveway through the ratty curtains on the front window and put my thoughts to work.

I had Les pretty much figured out. He's a simplistic man with a love for furry things, young girls, and sharp knives. He isn't very imposing, he just looks like some dumb old hick. I suppose that's good in some ways. People just think he's trying to help instead of leading them into a trap. Bo is a bit different. It's clear he also likes young girls, and had decided I was the decided I was the substitute. He still has a lot of secrets hidden from me. I sort of see him the same way the victims see him: a mysterious, handsome man. Vincent is probably the one I know the least about. You can only learn so much from a person's medical records. He's a forbidden thing; maybe that's why I'm so interested in him. He was the good twin growing up and now...Jesus-fucking-Christ, what happened?! He'd done a complete one-eighty. Worse that Bo, the bad child. And, trust me, I'm determined to learn as much about them as I can.

I stormed out of the house in a fit of drama no one was there to see and jogged down the driveway. I glanced around the town, hands on my hips, as I debated where Bo could have gone in such nice clothes. I laid my eyes on the church and made a disgusted face. I hadn't been in a church since I'd been suspended. It made sense since it was the only place in the whole town you had to look nice. No one cared if you decided to walk buck-naked into the movie house. I walked up to the doors and paused. A recording of a funeral procession was playing. I pushed the right door open just far enough to slip in and ducked behind the back pew. My mind reeled.

This was a funeral, I'd already figured that out after wandering around for hours on end. I'd never bothered to find out whose funeral it was. It was obviously one of the Sinclair brothers' parents since there had been no one else to value. So, it was the good old Doctor or his wife. I found it strange that it was either of them; those restraints I'd found on Bo's highchair weren't put there by him. If they were--

I looked up slowly, noticing I was cast in shadow. "Hi!" I exclaimed cheerily, flashing my best innocent smile. He regarded me briefly before going back to his place in front of the casket. I stood slowly and surveyed the room. The people in the pews were frozen in time, as always. I delicately plucked the program resting in the hands of a black woman and examined it. "Trudy Sinclair," I mouthed, arranging the paper back the way it was. My eyes trailed along the floor and up to the casket, regarding it with a small bit of sympathy. I walked up to it, hands held together at my waist, and looked at the woman inside. She was elderly, gray hair pulled back, with plain clothes and strange wax creatures held between her ringed fingers. Her face was set in what I took as an eternal scowl. I resisted the urge to reach out and touch her before joining Bo on the floor.

_(The dark haired mortician leaned against one wall of the funeral parlor, observing the blond girl crying over the casket. She sighed irritably and rolled her eyes, trying to focus on the noise from the office on the floor above. There was none, seeing as the owner had gone home. "Get over it, kid," she said finally with more than an air of exasperation. The blond looked up slowly._

_"How can you say that?" the girl asked, sounding deeply hurt._

_The mortician shrugged. "It's a fact of life, _little girl_. Besides, what's the point of life, anyway? No one gets out alive." She pushed herself off the wall and walked over next to the girl. In one sudden movement she slammed the lid of the coffin down. "End of story.)_

I chuckled mildly at the memory, earning a cold stare. "'No one gets out alive'," I quoted, gesturing with one hand at the casket. "Life is just like one big horror movie. You know it's coming, the end of the line." A moment of silence existed after I was done speaking. "This is the part where you punch in the face for being such a jerk."

Bo laughed a bit. "Morgan DelRossi, you _are_ cruel." I smiled at him and turned my attention back to the casket.

"So...what happened to her?" I asked quietly, settling down cross-legged.

"She got a cyst in her brain and just...rotted away. She had to be strapped to the bed...in the end, you know." I nodded in understanding. Some sort of cyst and dementia. I couldn't really determine anything without an autopsy. I moved to the next question.

"And... your father?"

"He shot himself 'cause of it." A love suicide. Execution style would be the quickest way. "What about your parents?"

I frowned. "Well...after the accident I was in a coma. The doctors were saying I wasn't going to make it, so they went the same way as your father. They" -I slid two fingers across my throat- "though." He nodded. "Bleed out happily in sweet pain."

"Once again, you're cruel."

I laughed mildly. "I've been told." I stood and headed for the door. "Sorry I interrupted, man. Pay your respects. I'll see you around."


	13. Chapter 12

I caught a cold yesterday so I decided that I'm finally going to put my mind to it and start updating. This is the first one I've done, the others I just have to finish typing from the papers I have. I really don't think there's anything else to say.

**Disclaimer-** I own nothing you recognize.

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The House of Wax never seemed so eerie than now, the lifeless figures almost tracking me with their frozen eyes. I shivered, wishing that they weren't eternally joyful. I hurried to one of the many short cuts of the of the town, eager to get away from the place as fast as possible. I paused at the beginning of the labyrinth, wondering which way I had to go in order to confront Vincent. "Goddammit, no wonder no one gets out of here alive, this place is way too confusing for my mind, I'm too old for this – Jesus-fucking-Christ, don't do that!" I laid a hand over my heart, trying to get over my moment of terror. I glared at Vincent for sneaking up on me. He wandered off down one of the tunnels and I stared at his receding form, debating on how to approach the subject.

"Hey, wait!" I shouted after him, grabbing on to the back of his jacket so he couldn't go any further. Once I let go he turned and looked at me expectantly. I found myself at a loss for words. " I-um-well, I...you see, I...wanted to ask you some questions." I glanced around. "Can we not talk in the middle of this hallway-thingie?" We walked into his workshop and her began prepping a corpse for waxing. I took a seat on a stool.

"So, yeah, I wanted to ask you a few things," I restated, tapping my fingernails against the table. He glanced up to give me a quizzical look. "Let's start with 'who are you?'" Vincent stared at me for a few moments as if I'd gone insane. "Like, who are you as a person, you know? Am I making sense?" He shook his head. I sighed. "I want to get to know you."

"No." His reply was so sudden I almost fell off my stool. I stared at him in shock.

"But...why not?" I asked, leaning forward on my stool. He shrugged. "That's not an answer!" I practically shouted, exasperated. "I'm not like-like them!" I waved my arms at the body, which was now being rigged up in the wax shower. He paused, looking at the floor for a moment, before facing me.

"How much do you know about us?" he asked, and it took all my will to keep myself from jumping in joy.

"Well, you were conjoined twins, the separation could have been better, your mother died of a brain cyst and your father shot himself because of it." He nodded slowly. "Say...whatever happened to your father? Is he on display here, too?"

Vincent shook his head. "No. The way he shot himself...there was too much damage. We buried him in the back of the church, in that little cemetery."

"Okay, then." I doubted that was the case, but I figured there were somethings I wasn't supposed to know. "What was it like, growing up here?"

He shrugged. "It was a small town, one of those everybody knows everybody kind of things. You could leave your doors unlocked and not worry about being robbed. Growing up I was the good child and Bo was the bad. Some twin thing."

"What made you snap and hurt everyone who came 'cross your path?"

"I didn't want to at first, it was all Bo's idea. But her reminded me of all the torture people'd put me through. Plus he said my artwork would be more real. Said Mom would be proud."

I thought about it, the logic of a crazed young boy. I suppose it would make sense to him. Didn't serial killers usually have a mother problem? There was always Ed Gein. Not knowing what to say without making him angry, I shrugged. "Que sera sera," I commented finally and he chuckled a bit.

"Yeah, I guess we kind of lost track of that original motivation," he agreed.

"Clearly," I scoffed a tiny bit and kicked my heels against the legs of the stool.

"What about you?"

"Me? Well, I'm a resurrectionist – probably not the kind you're thinking of. I provide bodies to my medical school by digging up graves and such."

"You have a medical school?"

"Yeah. In the basement of an apartment building back in Amarillo." He nodded and I slid off my stool. "See you around. I'm going to go see if I can cheer Les back up. Turned down an offer to go terrorize some teens."


	14. 2013 news

**WELL SHOOT SHOOT SHOOT IT'S 2013 AND I KNOW I'M FOOLING YOU ALL BY INCLUDING THIS NOTE BUT I INTEND TO ONE DAY SIT DOWN AND REVIEW THE THINGSES THAT MY FICS ARE BASED ON AND LOCK MYSELF IN A ROOM WITH THEM AND TRY TO GET BACK INTO THEM.**

At the moment, I feel promise for Art and Kiss, especially since the new TCM (if I ever get my butt to the theatre) will probably get me in to mood.


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